Death to Pay (4 page)

Wilson carried two cups of coffee as he entered the ‘soft’ interrogation room. He placed one in front of Sammy Rice and one on the other side of the table. He held out his hand. ‘Condolences on Lizzie. I’m sorry for your trouble.’

Rice took the proffered hand and shook it. 

Wilson sat down and blew on the coffee before tasting it. ‘Canteen crap,’ he said nodding at the cup. ‘The coffee machine is bust.’ He looked at Rice – the blond hair, the tan, the designer jeans and leather jacket. Rice had put on a bit of weight since Wilson had last seen him. The additional weight gave Rice’s unlined face a cherubic look. It was a face that totally belied the nature of its owner. Rice wouldn’t have got to where he was without being a thug. But he was a thug with a brain. Wilson knew that men with that combination could be very dangerous. Right now, Rice was taking on the mantle of the grieving son. 

‘She was a feisty auld mare,’ Rice said lifting his coffee cup and following Wilson’s example by blowing on the liquid before tasting it. ‘But she didn’t deserve to be battered to death in her own home.’

‘I know it’s no consolation, but she was on her way out anyway. The pathologist did an autopsy this morning. She was riddled with cancer and had six months, maybe twelve. I’ll get you a copy of the findings when it’s available.’

‘When can I see her?’

‘She’s in the Mortuary at the Royal. I’ll make the arrangements whenever you’re ready. I’d wait a while if I were you. I’m afraid she’s not a pretty sight.’

‘I already talked to the auld boy,’ he sipped the coffee. ‘I hear that she’s a bit of a mess.’

‘That’s putting it mildly. We’ll get whoever did it,’ Wilson tried to put a confidence into his voice that he didn’t feel.

‘Aye, you’d better.  Because if you don’t, I will and the kind of people I’ll put on the streets won’t be wearing kid cloves. The point here is not that someone waltzed into the Shankill and murdered Lizzie Rice. The point is that someone waltzed into the Shankill and murdered Sammy Rice’s mother. That can’t be allowed to happen.’

‘Was it about you or her?’

‘You think the Taigs were involved or one of my associates maybe?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Count the Taigs out. They wouldn’t bother with yesterday’s news. Lizzie might have been a target twenty years ago but not today. And I’ve no problem with the Taigs right now. Killin’ each other is bad for business. I’ll be checkin’ out my associates myself. Ye haven’t a fuckin’ clue, have ye?’

‘It’s early days. We’re still looking at possible lines of enquiry.’

Sammy drained his coffee cup. ‘You’re not a fool, Mister Wilson, far from it. The boys’ll be on the streets this evenin’. There’ll be some ruckin’ and a few motors’ll be burned. They’ll be out there every night until you catch the bastard who murdered my mother. So my advice is to get your arse in gear and get someone behind bars.’

‘I think it would be more useful if we didn’t have to expend vital resources keeping your people in check. Why don’t you call off the dogs until the funeral is over?’

‘You people need to feel the pressure,’ Rice stood. ‘You’re right, shit coffee,’ he said on the way to the door.

CHAPTER 8

Wilson’s team assembled at two o’clock in the afternoon to review the progress on the case. The whiteboard now contained a picture of Lizzie as she had been before someone had cleaved her head in. A selection of crime scene photos of the living room was set out beneath and a map of the area around Malvern Street.

‘Peter, nothing from the house to house?’ Wilson asked.

‘Not a sausage, Boss. All sorts of people were going hither and thither, but nothing concrete.’

‘Moira, what about CCTV?’

Moira moved to the whiteboard and pointed at the map. ‘Nothing inside the streets behind the Shankill. The first CCTV point is where the Shankill Road meets the Westlink.’

‘The City Fathers don’t give a bugger about the Shankill,’ Harry Graham said. ‘The Safer Belfast CCTV scheme covers only the area around the University. Let’s take care of the students but leave the other poor buggers with no cover.’

Wilson turned to McIver. ‘Ronald, anything on threats to Lizzie?’

McIver coughed to clear his throat. ‘She’s been out of the public for a while except for a few sorties during the flag protests. It’s all the young people now, Boss. Nobody has given a shit about Lizzie for quite a long time.’

‘Keep on it. Check with her friends. See how things were with Billy. It’s a bit convenient him being sprayed with Mace and then conked out during the murder. We need to know everything about Lizzie. She was the target and there has to be a reason. We need to find that reason.’

Chief Superintendent Donald Spence stood next to Wilson as both watched Deputy Chief Constable Roy Jennings press the flesh of the large contingent of reporters gathered in the Press Centre at PSNI Headquarters. Judging from the number of journalists present, and the number of TV stations represented the world had not forgotten Lizzie Rice or her fight to keep Ulster British. Her murder and its method were big news.

‘That’s the way to make it in our game,’ Spence said nodding in the direction of Jennings.

‘That’s the way to make it in every game,’ Wilson said. ‘The shit always rises.’

‘Some day, Ian, some day,’ Spence said. ‘That wee bastard is going to have your guts for garters.’

‘Aye, but I’ll be ready to go by then. And he’ll not have an easy ride.’

It was five minutes to three o’clock, and the PSNI Press Officer was gradually getting the assembled journalists to take their seats. The hubbub was decreasing when Jennings indicated to his junior officers that they could join him at the top of the room. The DCC was wearing his dress uniform as was the Chief Super. Wilson was dressed in plain clothes, that is if one could consider a white Boss shirt with a blue Armani tie and a grey Canali suit plain. Jennings led the way to the top of the room followed by Spence with Wilson bringing up the rear. An outsider might think that the line up had been decreed by height rather than status. Jennings stood at five foot six in his platform shoes; Spence was a healthy six feet while Wilson towered over both at six feet three.  They reached the podium and sat behind the cardboard triangles bearing their names. Jennings had centre stage.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘First on behalf of the Police Service of Northern Ireland I would like to extend our condolences to the family of Elizabeth Rice. We are appalled that such a prominent member of the Loyalist community could be so viciously murdered in her own home.’  Jennings allowed a pregnant pause for his words to sink in. ‘As many of you will be aware, the Senior Investigating Officer on the case will be Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson, head of the Murder Squad. Superintendent Wilson is one of our most experienced officers and is currently following several lines of enquiry. We are hopeful for an early arrest. I would like to take this opportunity to request the Loyalist community to remain calm. Early indications are that there is no sectarian aspect to this heinous crime. A disproportionate response from the Loyalist community will not help this investigation and will only divert resources from crime prevention.  I would, nevertheless, call on any person who has direct or indirect information concerning this crime to phone the Crimebusters phone line. Thank you.’

Wilson was pleased that he hadn’t been called on to say a few words since there was very little he could have added. He would have sprouted the usual tosh about his team being totally committed to solving the Elisabeth Rice murder. He looked at the mass of journalists who started to raise their hands, and he saw a figure he recognised. Maggie Cummerford, the former crime reporter of the Belfast Chronicle, was staring directly at him. Wilson hadn’t seen her for months and had assumed that his insistence that she retract an article concerning a Professional Services Division investigation into his handling of the arrest of his former boss put paid to her career. Their eyes linked together and she slowly raised her right hand and made a childlike goodbye wave at him. Wilson simply smiled and turned to see that the DCC was fielding questions. This was a risky business, but every answer from Jennings would prove just how on top of things he was. Wilson was tempted to stand up and leave, but that might be seen as a sign of disdain for his superior. Fuck it, he thought and stood up. He walked slowly out of the Press Room leaving Jennings in full flow.

CHAPTER 9

The meeting of the Murder Squad team at six o’clock that evening represented the end of the first day of the investigation into Lizzie Rice’s murder. The riot, or more correctly the embryonic riot, had already kicked off in the Shankill and rush-hour traffic was being diverted. The signs were ominous. It was going to be a long night for the thin blue line. Wilson hadn’t heard from Kate, and he was hoping that she was following his advice concerning getting home early. He also hadn’t eaten and was equally hoping that Kate had the foresight to think about dinner. Since they both had taxing professional lives, the fridge was generally found wanting when an impromptu meal had to be put together. Thank God someone invented takeaway.

‘Peter, anything?’ Wilson asked.

Peter Davidson didn’t even bother to answer. He simply shook his head.

‘The forensic report has arrived, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘There’s a copy on your computer, and I’ve been going through it for most of the afternoon. It looks like Billy Rice’s evidence was on the spot. They found evidence of a mace-like substance on the door. There is evidence of someone grabbing at the wall in the hallway corroborating Billy’s statement. Most of the fingerprints in the house were Billy’s and Lizzie’s although there are quite a few others. Eliminating the other prints is going to be a nightmare, although four sets of the fingerprints found belonged to Sammy Rice and three of his cronies.’

‘Check them out for alibis,’ Wilson said.

‘Already on it, Boss,’ Moira said. ‘There was a mass of blood around, all of it Lizzies. There were as we know no defensive wounds on her hands so it’s safe to say that she was attacked from behind. There could be no resistance after the first blow. ’ Moira was about to continue when her mobile phone rang. She pressed the green button and listened, then cut the line. ‘Pathology lab. They’ve been in contact with forensics. It appears that your new best friend, Professor Reid, sent them a cast from Lizzie’s head wound. They haven’t completed their investigations, but it looks like the assailant use a ball hammer, whatever that is.’

‘It’s a very wicked tool and an interesting choice of weapon,’ Wilson said. ‘I have only three preliminary conclusions. One, Lizzie was the specific target. She was not a victim of circumstance. Billy was lying prone on a chair, and he wasn’t harmed other than being zapped with a Taser and possibly given a blow to the head. So someone wanted Lizzie and Lizzie alone. Second conclusion concerns the wound and the choice of weapon. The murderer wanted Lizzie’ head caved in. There was no stabbing or shooting. It was a premeditated attack on the head. Why only Lizzie and why was the head so important? If we can answer those two questions, we will have some idea who the murderer might be. Three, the use of Mace and a Taser-like weapon to disable Billy. This is someone who either knows something about physiology or who has done some research. That means it could be any of the million people in Northern Ireland who can use the Internet. Personally, I don’t think that any of these questions will be answered easily. That’s where we have to go. It’s in Lizzie’s background. Now we have to find it. Anything else?’

The team remained silent.

‘First thing to-morrow morning, we start on Lizzie. I want to know everything about her from the day she was born until the day she died,’ Wilson returned to his office and switched on his computer. A list of fifty e-mails ran along the page.

‘Want to see the press conference?’ Moira asked from the door.

Wilson glanced at his watch. ‘It’s over.’

Moira held up a tablet computer. ‘The wonders of technology.’

They watched a rerun of the press conference. The TV camera caught his departure and also DCC Jennings’ reaction to it.

Wilson smiled. ‘I’m going to pay for that.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘That’s a big word like arsehole.’

‘There are ladies present. How’s the baby coming along?’

Wilson explained the photo from the scan and his difficulty discerning a baby in it.

‘You’re not only incorrigible; you’re also a Neanderthal. You know the guy I’ve been seeing lately.’

‘The good Dr Guilfoyle.’

‘It’s Professor Guilfoyle to you. He’d like to meet you.’

Wilson raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely a member of your own family should handle the ‘my intentions are honourable’ conversation.’

‘He’s a clinical psychologist, and he’s done some work for the FBI.’

Wilson’s eyes rose for the second time.

‘I know how you feel about profilers and the like, but Brendan is just interested. I think he finds the criminal scene in Belfast a little tame and Lizzie Rice’s murder is a bright spot in his otherwise boring lecture schedule.’

‘Not a consultation,’ Wilson said. ‘A drink.’

‘Agreed. Can I show him the crime scene photos?’

‘If you take them home this evening to examine them, make sure nobody outside the team sees them.’

‘Understood. Tomorrow evening for the drink.’

‘Unless the Loyalists set the town on fire.’

Moira exited the office, and Wilson was left alone with his thoughts. And those thoughts turned to riots. Every time either the Loyalists or Republicans didn’t like something they would take to the streets. Groups preparing to riot throughout the world should first employ one of the professional rioters from Belfast to train up the learner-rioters in their country. A subject for the riot was not really necessary. The recent ‘flag riots’ were one of the best examples. The streets of Belfast were turned into a mess because the City Fathers had decided to only fly a flag on certain days of the year over City Hall. So what, said the majority of the population. Not so, said the professional rioters. Their itchy fingers sped to their mobile phones or their tablets and Twitter was alive with arrangements to riot. Times and places were transmitted and for the uninitiated rioter, a Google map could be appended. Technology was shown to be riot friendly. With great reluctance, Wilson returned to his computer. He would give the blasted e-mails one hour of his time.